


States of Matter

by Semianonymity



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semianonymity/pseuds/Semianonymity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jade, and what it's like living on a lonely island, made lonelier after her grandpa dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	States of Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassowarykisses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassowarykisses/gifts).



That morning, storm clouds had started to bloom on the horizon, huge and towering, the light going all wrong. Jade had watched it for hours, slowly growing, and finally made her way down to sit on the rocky shore, above the waves—she kept on having to move further and further back, but she knew that if she got too wet, if the surf reached her, Bec would make her go inside. She was still wet, even though the rain visible as a haze on the horizon hadn't reached them yet. The wind was whipping salt spray at her, soaking through her clothes, and Jade sat there and felt the cold, as the harsh wind stripped away the water, evaporative cooling, something she'd read about. She could imagine the clouds climbing out of her pores—there were places where she was chilled, where the water and wind and the change of matter (water to water, liquid to vapor) left her skin cold and clammy, and there little pockets of heat, not quite enough, where her arms rested against her knees, where her knees were pulled up to her chest, protected.

Her Grandpa had always told her to be a sensible gal. She should go inside. The salt was starting to crust on her skin, drying stiff, and she'd need to wash it off—it stung, badly, on her skinned knee. Where she'd tripped on the rocks, the knots and ropes of cooled lava—sharp, rough, sometimes breaking or sliding under her feet. She hadn't been careful enough, and Bec took care of her, but she needed to learn her lessons, and Grandpa was dead now. She still had her rifle with her. She'd need to clean it thoroughly—after all, you took good care of your weapons! Grandpa had taught her that.

Bec was suddenly there, a warm mass against her back, and she let herself lean, boneless, against him.

“Hi, Bec!” she said, figuring he'd hear her over the howling wind and the waves. Jade scratched at his chin, under his ears, and then they were gone, and nowhere, and then they were back in her room. The salt itched and stung, and her knee was tender. Jade almost— _almost_ —wanted to cry. Instead, she pulled off her clothes and made her way to the shower—down the stairs, who'd designed this stupid house?

She stopped and stared out the window, at trees lashing, heaving, like monsters come alive. But she was the only thing on the island, really, her and Bec, who'd left footprints in the lava back when it was still molten. He was a good dog—he kept her safe. There were insects—they'd been silent all day, their background hum gone, the sound of the surf slowly strengthening, although there was nowhere on the island where it was really gone, sometimes Jade liked to pretend that she could feel the crash of it moving the whole island, like it was afloat—but that was silly. (Jade could be a silly girl.) But there were almost no birds, there were no mammals, at least not for very long. Sometimes Bec made rabbits appear, from—somewhere. It didn't seem very fair to her! But Bec loved chasing—and Bec was a good dog. Even if sometimes he was difficult! Jade knew some dogs were easier—but without Bec, she'd be alone. She'd have no reason to find steaks to cook, no reason to brush out his fur which didn't really need it, while his tail thumped on the floor.

Sometimes there were tiny lizards on the rocks, and Jade liked to watch them, fascinated. But Bec would chase them, too. If dogs cared about fairness, it wouldn't be fair that the rocks they hid under tended to disappear. She didn't know how the lizards came back. It was probably Bec.

There were no amphibians. No frogs. There almost never were, on islands—on islands like her island, volcanic. Isolated, alone, and saltwater killed frogs. And Jade had looked it up, because she was a bright girl, silly or not, and Grandpa encouraged her, and Bec couldn't encourage her like he had, but Bec was what she had now, and he'd been a naturalist, encouraging her to explore the world, even if Grandpa really seemed more enthusiastic about the shooting, stern and gruff, the upright old type from the good old days, always ready to give you what for, a stern lecture, some moral fiber—

Jade was standing dead still in the hallway, hair dripping salt water down her back, staring out the window. She was naked, and inside the air was still and humid, the house cut off from the wind she could see blowing raindrops—it was raining—against the window with violent force, she could see the ebb and flow of the wind, like watching debris running in the tide—but she was still shivering, even though she felt prickly and hot and overcome. She was still shaking.

She ran the water hot, and rinsed herself off, and then sat down in the shower to try and pull a comb through her hair—tangles and snarls—and nobody to brush it out for her, nobody to help. She'd need to figure it out. (She was a bright girl.) Gardening was so much easier! You weren't _supposed_ to untangle roots. It hurt the plants. Her hair was hurting _her_ , and her knee was stinging, red and inflamed, and Jade was cold again. The water was evaporating off of her. Her hair was a soggy, leaden mass, and cold. Jade tried to drag her fingers through a snarl, but it was stubborn. (States of matter, release of energy, transition, loss—and the salt pulling the water out of her skin, out of her cells. Her skin felt too tight, like it was shrinking—or like the feeling when her new teeth were coming in, crowding out the old. Too much.)

She was tired, but not—she couldn't sleep. It had gotten so hard to drift off, wake up, everything was so hard. Jade shouted in frustration, because there wasn't anyone to hear, and her fist thumped against the wall, shoulders smacking into cold porcelain, like a blow to flinch back from. She'd wanted—she wanted to be in her greenhouse or Grandpa's lab or her room, watching the storm, learning about it, but she wasn't, she _wasn't_ , and—

Jade shouted again, screamed, fury in her throat and it was the safest, most comfortable release. And then Bec was there—next to her, she was out of the bathtub, of course, Bec hated baths, you couldn't make him take one, Grandpa had been able to sometimes but Jade couldn't, he hated the bathroom and it was _silly_ because he'd go bounding into the ocean waves and splash around—and herd Jade back towards shore when the tide started to come in, creeping up higher around her legs—and then he'd roll in sand and seaweed and dead things and it was _gross_ , he was such a bad dog (no, he was a good dog, her best dog, the only thing she had other than herself and the softly fragrant comfort of her plants, the solidity of engineering, problem solving—she had a lot, she did, but Bec wasn't _hers_ , he kept her company, he wasn't a thing to own and that was important) and—her room again, they were on her bed, her hair leaving a growing patch of damp on her pillows and sheets.

But Bec was warm, and Jade pulled a blanket over herself, nestling into it like a dog would—like Bec, but with less manipulation of space and time. Bec sprawled against her, warm and comforting, and Jade dug her fingers into his fur, scratched behind his ear, down under his chin, Bec squirming until he could lick her forehead as she scratched. He was warm, almost a furnace, and Jade giggled.

Bec shifted so that he could lick her leg, still pressed against her and his tail waving happily, smacking her in the face. Her scrape stung—the prickle of radiation—she'd learned that radiation could be dangerous! Grandpa was very clear about dangerous situations. But Bec was different. She hugged him, tight as she could because she was lost, and she couldn't hurt Bec. And, finally, she started to cry, tears rolling down her face and making rough dog fur stick to her skin, awful and itchy and—more salt, she was still covered in it, ocean spray and now tears and she felt like she might dry up and float away—or simply mummify. One more dead thing in a house of them. Bec would be okay without her. Bec was always okay.

Bec finished licking her leg and awkwardly shifted, dog knees digging into her, and he licked her ear, adoringly, started licking her hair, trying to make it lay straight, and—

“Bec! Bec, no, bad dog—”

Bec didn't listen, but that was alright. He loved her.

She slept like that, curled up with Bec, and woke up with her legs tangled in her blanket, and Bec gone, off doing dog things. But that was alright. It was night still—Jade was hungry, so she pulled on clothes, familiar and soft, and pulled her hair back from her face and went in search of food.

She baked bread, sometimes—she ate steak with Bec, and picked whelks off the rocks, and sometimes ate Bec's dog treats. She grew fruit and vegetables in the greenhouse, and it made her happy and proud to eat her own food—like Grandpa was still there, telling her how resourceful she was, so independent.

The greenhouse was dark, some flowers open and spilling their perfume for moths and bats that couldn't get in, others closed tight until morning. She found a lemon, almost too ripe, and plucked it, soft and yielding and fragrant, and bit into it whole—the acid tingle of it on her tongue, bitter and sharp and _good_ , something she needed—something she craved, her body greedy for the taste of it. The same clean burn as Bec licking clean a scrape. She cherished the fruit she could coax out of her trees out of season. She needed to work harder. Her pumpkins kept on disappearing. Still! Jade was determined to find out how to keep them safe. She didn't have peppers any more—she'd stored the seeds wrong, ruined the whole batch, lost them all. So no more peppers. It was such a bother, sometimes, living out here!

But it was Grandpa's house, it was _her_ house, it was Bec's home, so much his home that he'd been imprinted onto the landscape, as much a part of it as, as—the crater in the middle. Bec wouldn't be right anywhere else. Plus, she couldn't exactly make him go anywhere! Bec loved her and she loved him, he was the best dog, but he wasn't good at listening sometimes, and he was Grandpa's dog. Her best friend.

Bec was there again, begging, face turned to her pleadingly, ears cocked just so, leaning in—so she offered him a piece of lemon, taken with nothing more than the gentle press of smooth teeth against her hand, promptly spat back out—it disappeared before it hit the ground. Bec looked disgusted.

Jade giggled, and went off to get a steak. Keeping Bec happy could be a lot of work! They'd play fetch later, maybe. After she'd cleaned her rifle—she'd neglected it. Bec would be upset. She wanted to make Grandpa proud.

And she would.


End file.
